Stillness Paradox

An Interior Sun

2009-07-03T08:11:00.000-07:00

Sitting in a hotel lobby, trying to ignore the communal television and its talking heads trumpeting on over celebrity deaths and conspiracy, I wait for the hours to tick by. I wait as floors are swept, as staff with rolling carts stuffed with those veneer like ammenities that assure us this room is new and special; we walk into some room, bags slung over shoulder, and see new towels, toilet papers, sheets, and neat little drink coasters protected cheap furniture from look cheaper. I wait.

Knowing the events to come, just hours away, everything becomes a potential distraction: I watch a maid clean the counters, listen to a couple bicker because she doesn't "know where the hell the cards are", feel the ebb and flow of tension as new guests check in and old business checks out. Yet every distraction, now oddly interesting as my mind wrestles to understand what it is I am about to do, seems surreallistically dull. Not boring--dull. Its as if the flavor of things has been muted.

Muted because in my heart a sun is blazing. A star so bright I can barely look at it. It warms the skin, brings a smile to faces, but too bright to look at. Too wonderous and strange.

So I wait, observing trivial details.

I should go put on my tux; my groomsmen will be here soon.

The Breaking of Youth

2009-06-22T06:59:00.000-07:00

I remember my twenties. I remember there were smiling, collegial accolades and special dinners in rooms lined with antique books, there were corporate fortresses of glass and steel where people in smart suits and dresses (with just a touch of red or maybe lavender)ran around over gray carpet from one big, white electric machine to another big, white electric machine, there was the shiney, new company car and aparments with polished wood floors and views of midtown. I remember it all.

But what I remember most, what I find myself thinking back to years later, are not the things of I was surrounded by, the precocious cut and measure of youth. Now, late at night, in those times when I feel that all my life has come to nothing, I find myself musing in the dark, lit by the fleeting color of the traffic light outside, about all of the intangibles of youth. Memories arise like the aroma of cinnamon and apples from the stove to crowd the mind with sweet sentiments: the feeling of exuberant power still bound in sheer physicality, the sense of unlimited potential that accompanied new-found adult freedoms, the conviction that everything would come right in the end and that surely a new epoch was upon us.

I cherish those memories, though in time the sentiments of youth were forged into harder things, all blades and armor. The world, I discovered, had been dispatching the dreams of young men and women as far back as the human story goes. And while it is unnecessary to list off the failed relationships all wrapped in crying and moments of painfull stillness, or the professional blunders captured in neat Times New Roman memos informing me of dismissal, let it suffice that I learned what all people learn sooner or later--that I am only one small creature in the vast teaming ocean of time. In other words, I am only one among many.

At first, those realizations stung. Then they burned. Like small slivers, lodging themselves under the skin, those thoughts became the bane of my every movement. Go this way and it jabs; go that way and it stings; dig at it and wound yourself; ignore it and become a coil tensed to snapping. The clever quips and smug self-assurance of youth lost all their flavor. They seemed as rancid meat too long kept. Eventually, a subtle form of despair set in. Before I knew it, my life had become one of enduring routine, filling out mindless forms, and trying not to smash my car into some equally miserable fuck on the interstate.

For a long time, I thought that was all of it. I was sure that adulthood had found me, delivered its letter, and was now just around the corner, laughing its ass off. But things changed.

In stories, we all like to see that one event, one turning point, when the progagonist becomes a hero, when he realizes what his error has been and what he must do. The character transforms and via his realization the whole of creation changes too. The world is re-born and everyone is happy. At least, that is how it goes in the stories. But in life, at least as I have found it, our transformation comes in hard-won drips and drabs, like a giant trying to rouse itself from a sleeping potion.

As I went about the rest of my life, resolved not to kill myself yet certain it would probably be a good idea, I witnessed the whispering of the souls. That changed things, bit by hard-won bit. As I sat in lines for coffee (because that is what your supposed to do in the morning) I watched hate travel from one car to another car as small, digital, console clocks inched, number by number, closer to disapproving looks from a co-workers or just to a banquet of mental self-flagellation. I watched love pass freely between a mother and her child as little hands and feet tried again and again to negotiate a set of stairs. I watched a man who didn't have a dollar to give, but did have five minutes to listen, impart peace to crack head I had seen earlier that week thrown into the backseat of a squad car. Slowly, but surely, I saw how souls whisper to each other beneath all the clatter and meaning of our simple languages.

Before I knew it, I was doing and being things I did not fully understand. Friends would tell me of how they hate their significant others, and I would buy them ice-cream. Willie, the old veteran turned hobo, and I would laugh and as we drank coffee together in the train station (Willie actually isn't a hobo--that is just the act he runs to get money in his hat). Soon, the people and halls of work became painted with a thousand beautiful dream-colors of my co-workers hopes for their children and loved ones. In time, I even found myself happily letting people cut me off on the highway.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not relating any of this because I want you to know I'm a swell guy. I still continue to do as much wrong as I do right. If values like that even apply. But what I have found, what has sustained me, is that we have power. Maybe it's not the genie-like magnificence that youth dreams will deliver its every wish (and maybe that's a good thing). Yet we have an undeniable power to affect those about us, to spread compassion, to assuage fear, to fan the sparks of joy to an all-consuming fire. The mountains will still "crumble to the sea" and the universe will continue to turn in violent, awe-inspiring waves, but in the small spaces of this reality, in the closeness of two souls whispering, we can change the world for the people we meet. And in the end, I am OK with that.

God damn, it took a long time to grow up ;)

Life

2009-06-21T19:15:00.000-07:00

We all experience life. It is almost absurdly obvious to even state it, but sometimes simpler truths make paths that seemingly higher truths can not. We go through our days and lives, striving for this ideal or that, measuring ourselves versus systems, principles, and assets; and all about us, we see the turmoil, ugliness, and suffering of the world. And no matter how hard we try to look away, or reinterpret the difficulties we see as boons, the problems of human life, ours and those about us, are still evident. Even if we find our own enlightenment, salvation, or some other windy mountain top, still those about us suffer. We rack our minds and bodies, bending those same systems and principles, ideals and assets, trying to make sense of it and undo the great woes we witness. Yet for all our trying, for all our cleverness, conflict and misery arises again and again. It is in all that trying, all that effort and activity, that simpler truths have a way of leveling seemingly complex obstacles.

We live. We all experience this thing called life. Whether we find ourselves in the great cities, the remote towns and villages, a far away island or other remote place, we are all experiencing very similar things. We feel, we wonder, we hope, we fear, we think, we plan. We live in the constant change of time where all things about us and within us are in a state of flux. We live knowing our lives are fragile, that at any moment the very thing that allows us to be might be snuffed out. We live wanting to experience happiness, joy, peace and love. We are all frustrated by things. We all have beliefs, we all have opinions.

"So what" cries out our small mindedness, "how does that solve anything".

"Whatever our different beliefs, feelings, and actions are, we are fundamentally having the same experience"

"Bullshit" it responds, "I'm nothing like them, and they are nothing like me; this is all some sort of namby-pamby we-are-all-one fantasy"

"No, they might not be like you, but that isn't what we're discussing; we discussing experience"

Finally, our resistance shouts, "this is all stupid"

The commonality of our experience as human beings is for many of us a dangerous thing because of its simple power. It erases our individual merits and misdeeds; it does away with distinctions that we raise ourselves up on or lean upon as crutch. The fundamental sameness of our experience equalizes us. And left in society of equals, all sorts of things become imperative: courtesy, compassion, dignity, tenderness, justice, discipline, wisdom, etc. Holding the idea that we all experience the same sorts of things as a lens with which to view the world, solutions begin to arise--simple solutions. Though these solutions may be simple in nature, they are often radical in implementation. Our sameness demands actions that challenge the established order of things. We avoid these obvious truths for just that reason: they call to us for revolutions against the norm. They call to us to care for others when we will be mocked for it. They call for us to bring powers to task when we will outcast for it.

Again, this all may sound ridiculously simple, but examine it closely in your views of people--of people you think selfish, or negative, or even monsters. Examine this truth with those who vex you and with those who you hold above reproach.

Seekers

2009-06-04T13:26:00.001-07:00

Our time here, living amongst all this rock and water on a little sphere spinning in space, is very short. And the end, for some, is near, even if they can not see it. Yet, despite all this, we spend our precious, uncertain quantity of time striving. We grasp at love in imagined, silver-screen fantasies, we look to avoid suffering like an ant trying to escape the rain; always seeking. But seeking what? Some say we are looking for meaning--for some significance for our own existence; others are sure we are only seeking our own pleasures. There are those that say we are yearning for truth or transcendence.

Regardless of what may actually be the case, the question arises, "how will we live well amidst all this striving".

Of the many things we seek, every shade and hue can be found. But one thing is common: seeking. And that one commonality of our individual experience of living is the very fulcrum upon which human relationships balance. Sometimes we seek things that are at odds with our fellows, sometimes we seek things that align. Out of the the various conflicts and harmonies of all this seeking, nearly all situations of the human experience manifest. The mundane banality of it all is seen every day: "I want this, but she wants that"; "he won't quit, but we want him gone"; "you would like to buy this, she would like to sell it"; "we want control; they want dominance"; etc etc. The seeking-nature of life is everywhere apparent.

So this brings us back to the question: how do we live well amidst all this striving. Obviously, we can not seek to simply impose our will or mindset upon those about us--this only increases the potential for conflict. Nor can we only seek to constantly convert those near by through good will and aligning what we seek with what others seek--this eventually leads to oppressive personal compromise or blind allegiance. If we are concerned with the question above (which all certainly are not), it is often more fruitful to concentrate only on how we, as individuals, deal with this seeking-nature of life.

The first step in living well with this reality is accepting it as reality. We will always seek, others will always seek, the scales will always tip back and forth. We are seekers, not finders, not keepers; we seek, and we always will.

Birthright

2009-05-24T16:38:00.000-07:00

There is in each man, woman, and child a sleeping force. Every fairytale, myth, and legend has spoken of it; even today, we see it plastered upon cellulose and screen with the subtle turns of seemingly mundane fictions or the extravagant adventures of impossible heroes. Science and modernity have done their best to condition this out of the human soul, but there it lays still--nagging, itching, calling us to something more.

We drone away at our jobs, our families, our past times always hoping that each moment will bring us a sense of fullness, a meaning, something greater than the simple physicality of existence. And each of us, whether we are aware of it or not, captures it in moments not looked for. A child's beaming grin brings us back to the bounty of love, a job well done deepens our gratitude for the act of living, laughter shared among friends builds the fires of fellowship that warm us against the night. Even amongst the depressed, the anti-social, and the insane these moments occur, albeit often unacknowledged and unvalued--for we all would have killed ourselves long ago if it were otherwise. Yet those feelings, sensations, and perceptions never sate us; they are only the bare surface of a reality that lay right next to us, calling us to arms. We all know it, wrestle with it, and slowly go mad because of it. We have unimaginable potential that we terrified to access, so we continue trying to settle for the commonplace, and thus we sit: unfulfilled.

Mankind has struggled with the search for fulfillment for as long as it has lived, but it has not struggled in vain. The answers to our general dilemma have been recorded in story after story: in the stories of the gods, amongst the journeys of heroes, in all the tales of old. Men and women, child and elder, were beset with the very same conditions we find ourselves in today: they were conscious beings in a physical realm; they suffered at the hands of nature, misfortune, and other individuals; and they knew they would die and the world would continue. Faced with such difficulties, they looked for meaning and fulfillment to make sense of their lives. Looking back, we often degrade the imagery and content of such stories as the wild manifestations of the imaginations of people unschooled in reason and science; nothing could be more wrong. Our ancestors, in their lack of scientific sophistication and ideologies, used whatever imagery was most appropriate to capture the experience or conception. Of the millions of forms they could have conceived of, of the countless variations of story they could have told, the images, symbols, and tales are generally the same regardless of the specific culture. The powers that lay with humanities reach are better represented by dragons, superhuman heroes, and mysterious gods.

It would be easy here to drift into sentimentalism about the wisdom of things ancient and the profanity of all things new, but that would be a mistake. So powerful and accurate were the ways of our elder ways that we still use them today. Despite the abundance of clinical psychological terms like neurosis, self-realization, or peak modal experience, most of us still make sense of our world and our lives through story. Indeed, the scientists and scribes have shamed all of us from actually following the paths that story gives us; they tell us we are "being foolish", "engaging in fantasy", or even "delusional". And yet, despite all that, Friday night will find most of us engaging in a good story rather than analyzing ourselves on a couch. In the cinema, at the theatre, on the television, or even on our computers: we watch story to find meanings, gain fulfillment, and seek guidance.

So then, why are we not out seeking to slay dragons, recover secret treasures, or save the world like those in stories old and new? We have been conditioned by the vary same men and women who have been there throughout time: those with control. In every era they have empowered some group or other to subjugate the greater whole through idealism. At times it has been religious leaders, at others brute mercenaries, and now it is in the hand of science and humanism that our birthright is suppressed. They have convinced us that we are all just small, flawed creatures; little more than masses of squirting chemicals and complex tissues. We walk through our lives seeking only to "get by" and be happy. Everywhere we are urged to "fit in" or worse still "grow up". So twisted has our thinking become that many of us mock the vary ways of thinking we secretly wish to engage in.

Science, like religion or nationalism, has its uses and is in many ways a wonderful thing, and it is not to blame for our circumstances. But it must be dethroned from its position in our psyches. Science is a practice, not an ideology; and further, if scientific investigation of history has shown us anything, it has shown us how often science is incomplete. Time and again, science has implied to humanity it has arrived at a complete truth, only to retract that statement later for some new complete truth it has discovered. Again, science and humanism are wonderful things, but they are by no means completely accurate when it comes to the potentials of the individual, or even the nature of reality.

Any person can easily confirm these truths about the inaccuracies of the present dominant mode of thinking through a simple examination of their own experience. Yet we often do not. So ingrained have these ways of thinking become that we are uncomfortable with moving beyond them. We seek to rationalize are fantasies, to rein in our desires, to temper our dreams--all in the name of being realistic. And that is just the way those in control want it.

But here is the thing: we are in control. Those of us at the top are just as much responsible as those at the bottom. All of us, each and everyone, has sold away our own birthright for the imagined safety we will gain. Of course, those in a position of influence, bear a certain heavier responsibility for this than those without, but it is only because they have a greater ability to change it, not because they are actively repressing it more than those without influence. And here it comes again, who among us has no influence? We all do, somewhere, with someone. We are our own slavers. Rather than accepting this, rather than charging out to realize "impossible" dreams, we sit and tell ourselves that we "can't do it", we tell others to "be practical", we cede all our power to people we imagine our in control and say to ourselves, "aww shucks, theres just nothing I can do".

My fellows, friends, brothers and sisters: awaken your sleeping dragons, be impractical, and rule your own worlds.

Shock Waves

2009-05-09T20:17:00.000-07:00

We die. In an incredibly short amount of time in this realm, we are born, we live, and we die; like certain fields of flowers, seemingly ever in bloom, if you look closely, there are whole slaughters, orgies, and birthings going on constantly. Our time here is so little, and our control over outcomes so limited, it is tempting to believe "whatever will be, will be", and slip into the pursuit of our own satisfactions and drives. For many, such a life is more than enough, and often such types contribute far more than one might think to the welfare of those about them. But for others, our smallness and our certain approaching end constitute an existentialist crisis from which it can seem there is no escape. Across time and space, beings have devised ways to deal with such crises: religions, sciences, philosophies, etc. While such systems can be supremely useful to those who embrace them, where does that leave those who can't? Must they choose one or dangle over a nihilist pit of blackness that threatens to swallow them whole?

The answers to such a question, the possibilities people offer to resolve the problem of meaning, are obviously varied and often as controversial as the more institutionalized ways of dealing with our existential dilemma (we are small, time is short, and no one has proof of what comes next). Yet, there truths that are helpful in facing such questions, though they don't answer them. Influence is one such truth.

We influence each other. Whether we wish to or not, we affect those who we come into contact with and they do the same in return. Yes, we share ideas and experiences, but beyond those easily measurable things, we influence each other in ways it is difficult to quantify. As you go through your day, countless people smile at you and you take no notice, but then there is that one; that little old lady (or some such character), blue hair and paisley dress, who though crouched slightly by time still has happy imps dancing behind her eyes: she smiles and some small shock wave travels unseen from heart to heart, from spirit to spirit, and for the briefest of moments we become that connection rather than the parts connected by it. We move beyond ourselves. "I"s become "we"s.

The truth of such influence is everywhere evident: in hate, love, friendship, conflict, etc. It is present in moments of sweating ecstasy between bedsheets, and it is there in the simple exchanges of "fuck you" so frequent on the highway. Influence, and the connection that comes with it, happens in the post office, when reading, at the supermarket, it even happens in the middle vast deserts to men hiding all alone in caves.

All of this influence, its majesty and mania, can be become blinding if looked at through only the lens of one's own experience. You can begin to question every feeling, every thought, every action. Yet, looked at from a broader perspective, it can inspire and calm and, most importantly, begin to reshape those existential questions that brought us here.

Look back to that field of flowers. Look beyond the individual comings and goings of its separate inhabitants, beyond the rising and falling of forms, and begin to see the movement of the wind. Look and see how influence, though seemingly small amongst the individual parts, spreads out in great waves and periods. See how love expands in silent pathways from one to a family; watch hope drift outward from a home into a community; witness the wisdom of women washing clothes hundreds of years ago forge a path into the heart of a nation.

We are more than we know.

benediction

2009-05-07T06:32:00.000-07:00

i love you all, you glorious fools. follow me again into the paths iniquity and indemnity, and there laugh such that the earth shakes, people take you for queer, and secretly envy you your madness. in bank lines and at stop lights, trolling the long overstocked aisles of supermarkets, sitting outside your supervisor's office listening to the shuffle of forms you are not meant to see but supposed to fear: in all these tiny escapades, these shattering trivialities of domestic civics, laugh and laugh again. god is the comedic genius, throwing up his soup on holy men, and we, a disparate band of patch-work malcontents, his fanatically loyal troupe.

PS: your fly is down.

Paper Cages

2009-05-01T23:10:00.000-07:00

Beasts and Gods

In paper cages.

Dreaming of

Rage and sorrow,

On crucified helixes

For atomic souls;

And still creation sings

And still creation sings;

As calculator

Bibles decree

Bastard saviors,

Sanctified fact,

And screaming

Infant cyborg hearts;

And still creation sings

And still creation sings;

As Bleeding,

Insect twitching,

Freudian circuits

Burn domestic

Run time errors--

Psychotic fractures;

And still creation sings

And still creation sings;

Be cause,

Sunlight rises,

Leviathan yawns,

And knick-knack

Hackdom knows

Death is freedom;

And still creation sings

And still creation sings.

The Aether

2009-04-17T16:46:00.001-07:00

The winds drift in cool magnificence
Seedlings afloat in ambient potentials
The breath racing over new born form
Tender stems pushing upward toward heaven
The air full of a countless exchanges
Nascent bulbs wait ready to become
The aether carries a secret light
Blossoms fire in cool magnificence
The winds carrying their ambient potential
Aging blooms watching new born form
The breath going out toward heaven
Withering petals recall countless exchanges
The air knows what to become
A dead flower holds a secret light
The aether

Rising

2009-04-10T10:45:00.000-07:00

Now

it stirs

leagues below

a form in the depths

a song in the silences of the heart

there are no notes no sounds

but a melody of intuitions

a pulling at the strings

wind racing over potentials

a symphony conceived of being and emotion

a readiness to become

rising beneath the sea of dross

that churns and crashes in this waking dream

a song is rising

named leviathan

bringing redemption and sorrow

coming to swallow the damned

merciless and beautiful

to end the futility of mortal flesh

a soul ascending

from the depths

to the aethers

and it will

obliterate

every

last

bit

Stitches and Christ

2009-03-22T21:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, for me at least, it is easy to get swept up in grand spiritual ideas and miss the smaller, less glamorous trials of life that are the actual spiritual battles most of us face in our daily lives. Too often have I read about the grandeur of the sea instead of paying attention to the compass and tack of my own life.

This weekend I was reminded again that spiritual advancement truly lays in the small trials of living.

I spent another six hours at the ER again this weekend; my significant other laying there next to me in pain. She was waiting to have her knees stitched close and hands bound. She had tripped off the porch as she went to chase some drunk young men away from our cars; they had been fighting outside and one of them had been trying to get in to the all the cars on our street. S. ran out there to scare them off. And while she has the heart of lion, unfortunately, she has the body of a lamb-a very fragile lamb. The kids jumped in their car and raced off, and as she hopped off the porch to get in a final word as they raced down the street, she tripped on one of the stairs and fell a few feet to the concrete below.

As she hit the ground, I ran out to her both annoyed and concerned. She was clearly hurt. I knew my job was to get her inside, clean her up, and make sure she was safe. I did that. But the whole time, my heart was raging. Why the hell does she have to do stupid shit like that? Who the hell does she think she is? Does she ever stop to realize how this will effect others? Does she realize how fragile life is? I love her to the ends of it all, but god damn she infuriates me sometimes.

As we traveled to the hospital in the middle of the night, I was (as my good Irish upbringing insured) outwardly stoic while inside I delivered half a dozen diatribes to S. on responsibility, wisdom, and prudence. All the while, she went on and on about the event: what happened, why it happened, how she fell, how it really wasn't her fault. As we got there, my annoyance had become outrage.

We pulled upto the ER, and as I parked the car, S. turned to me and said, "I feel like such a fool". I would like to tell you that I realized in that moment what an uncaring, small-minded ass I was being. Unfortunately, I can not. We entered the ER and waited. She was admitted while I periodically dozed off in one of the waiting room chairs.

An hour or two later, they said I could come in. She was laying on the hospital bed in one of those awful blue and white gowns; it was obvious she had been crying. By that point in the evening, the anger had gone out of me, replaced by old endurances I had learned in our many past hospital experiences. S. has been very sick in the past, very often--consequently, she hates hospitals. I went in and laid with her until the doctors came to start patching her up. We began joking, as is the custom, to try and alleviate the tension of being in that place. Finally, they came in and wheeled her to another room to sew her up.

On the way home, she apologized several more times. She felt so silly for having jumped off the porch to run after them. I told her not to worry about it, that she had done the right thing. As I said that, in my heart, I began to feel ashamed--through it all I had been so worried about how this affected me, and I had never stopped to think about how it had made her feel. I had fallen in love with her, in part, because of her fierceness, yet at the moment when that spirit inconvenienced me and my plans, I had become annoyed. I determined to do better and not be bothered by those small shortcomings in the one I loved.

It was then ten in the morning, and we both needed to eat. As we got closer to home, I pulled into a diner. I wanted to run in and order something for us to bring home to eat. As we pulled in, S. noticed a small, old man with a big, handlebar mustache bundled up next to the entrance. He was trying to sell a pile of Sunday newspapers. These men and women are common in our small city--they are often very poor or nearly homeless. Without hesitating, S. saw him and said, "can you give him something? Do we have any money?". I told her no, and got out of the car to get our food.

But as I walked into the diner, prompted by S.'s urgings, I spoke to the man.

"How are you today" I said.

"Ah, good, just waiting for it to warm up"

"Yup" I agreed, "the cold is almost gone; I'll be glad to see winter go"

He smiled, "you and me both son, I can't stand winter anymore"

We chatted for another minuter or so, then I ran in to get our breakfast. I waited for the food and thought about the man. I honestly had no money to buy one of his newspapers (I stopped carrying cash years ago). I knew S. was right though, we should give him something. What to do? The diner cashier brought out our food and rang me up. I checked through the order and noticed they had forgotten my coffee. After being awake for 24 hours, I wanted that damn coffee with all my heart. The cashier apologized when I pointed it out and ran back to get it.

As I left the diner, I saw the old man again. Having exchanged a few words, I felt like I had to say good-bye. And then the strangest thing happened.

"Hey, you want a cup of coffee" I asked.

He cocked his head for a second, "well, yeah, but..." I could hear his surprise.

"If you're out here braving the cold, the least I can do is get a man a cup of coffee" I said and smiled.

"Thanks, that will be great", he smiled a big smile back.

We exchanged handshakes and good-byes and I got into the truck. Shannon was beaming. "Thank you" she said. She had been watching the whole thing from the truck. I smiled and didn't know what to say. I had no words at that moment because I realized I had really done so little. The same fierce, almost instinctual, reaction S. had had to the malcontents out in the street was the very same thing that spurned her to give to an old man without a second thought. I realized the very trait in her that I had determined I needed to overlook at times was the trait that made her so very wonderful. She had helped that old man, I had just acted as a messenger for her compassion.

I don't often like to discuss my own religious beliefs (it usually causes debate), but the events of that day deserve it. S. who is, at best, nominally Christian transmitted to me (and thus that man) the Christ's love far better than I who practices regularly. She displayed a love that comes without judgment or expectation. Looking back, I wonder how I would have handled the events of previous evening if I had that type of love in my heart then.

I am again humbled by the mystery of God and his children.

Karma Bells

2009-03-15T19:09:00.000-07:00

I’m in the valley, in the bells,

In the ringing rings of hell,

Stuck in fear, doomed to hate

Free will sucks, this is my fate;

They ring ring from morn till dawn,

Trapped inside a circling song,

Memory hammers and heart resounds

Of yester-failures and morrow’s rounds;

Ring back, ring back the valley wails

“You are stuck with me till you fail”,

So it is that karma rings,

Beating 'gainst my beating wings.

10,000 Year Chain

2009-03-13T08:55:00.000-07:00

A 10,000 year chain
Dragging you by the neck
Back to petty order
And sad hierarchy;
All for a few seedlings
And a spare patch of land,
Coaxing you into a cage
Of ownership and fear;
So it is with all your
Modern sophiscation,
Your quanta and schema,
Your supposed slaying
Of mystery, that you
Are still, little creatures
Clinging to a plot of
Land and hoping that your
Master's chain doesn't
Snap too hard.

Fictional

2009-03-11T11:49:00.000-07:00

God is a fictional character,
A hero or villain by turns,
Gallavanting through the mind
In endless processions of whys,
Asking and asking, with a strict
Policy of not answering;
He gallops about, dashing off
Little novels as he rides,
Tossing them to crowds of
Hopeful side characters
Longing to have a plot device
All their own-maybe even
A chapter with a lurid flashback;

God is a fictional character
And so am I.

Playground

2009-03-11T10:51:00.000-07:00

Hop scotch and kick ball-
The new kid wants to play;
A pink slip in hand ends
A rainy Thursday.

It's all about the playground.

She giggles with braids
No one knows my name;
A lonely note on the
Table, apologies and shame.

It's all about the playground.

It is my turn at bat
I'll miss to be safe;
23 unknown calls
On bills that are late.

It's all about the playground.

Fourteen years old and
Already seven towns;
Thirty-five and poor
Afraid to commit.

It's all about the playground.

Figments

2009-03-06T23:48:00.000-08:00

He set the pen down
And scribbled me out,
All singing and dancing
about and about;

Here a quirk and there
a virtue, next a drive
to fall and rise to-
the pen set out,
the pen set out;

Scribbling and scribbling,
I grew and yearned,
Now a man walking,
Now a man learned;

And as he wrote
Across the page,
A notion he had
Of a scribbling mage;

So here I sit
With pen in hand,
Dreaming up folks
In foreign lands;

And sometimes between
Comma and clause,
I wonder what hand
that this mind draws.

A Light in the Darkness

2009-02-17T21:39:00.000-08:00

He said to me, "As I am like the Father, so too are you".

I stood there in the wilderness at night, the fires of camp still seen in the distance, and found myself wordless. The impact of his statement, launched like a thousand arrows, tore away all my solid grips on reality.

"But that can't be", I uttered, "I am but simple man and a sinner".

He looked at me for a time, and every part of me wanted to look away. But there in in his eyes, I saw the fires of divinity raging; and somehow I knew he was looking at the same thing in mine. My guts twisted like some invisible hand was ripping them downward. I cried out.

"NO! This can not be"

"But it is" he said calmly.

I looked at him again, perhaps to rebuke him, perhaps to strike him. And again I saw heaven's fire burning there, yet this time it was not behind his eyes, or mine. There was only one fire and we, like smaller flames, arose and fell from within it over and over. There was no He, there was no I. The cold ground of night hurt as my knees hit it and I discovered I had collapsed, crying.

"And now you know the burden of the truth", he said, "and the wonder of it all". He turned and walked casually back to camp humming a children's lullaby.

Years later, I still wrestle with that evening in my mind. Still I can not seem to accept his words as I cling to the tattered rags that are my own beggar's raiment. Still I fear to let go of the those simple fictions I have wove for myself; still terrified to accept what will surely destroy the world before me and remake it in the light of heaven.

Such is the predicament of humanity.

The Lantern

2009-02-03T08:10:00.000-08:00

I stumbled in the dark and there before me was a lantern shining. Beheld, it illuminated the world and I came to know myself as I had not. As it cast its rays about, everything seemed set on fire; I too burnt with a glow unearthly. So it passed that I laid the lantern aside and walked in a dream of living light.

North I traveled and found shape; to the South, I found color. Sound and smell arose in the East and West respectively. All the world I traveled and every manner of sense and form did arise.

So vast and varied was it all that in time one thing washed into another. Sound was just sound. Color was just color. And further, as time passed, scent confused itself with shape. Travelling and travelling, sense became sense and nothing more.

Yet light burned within me still, and though the world had become a blur of nothing, all things still shone in the mind. In thought light prevailed.

In large things, I discovered patterns; in the small, discernment. Process and parts became clear in time and space imagined. Each direction my mind traveled and found there new thoughts.

So many thoughts came and went that eventually one thing washed into another. Concepts were just concepts, patterns were just patterns. And further on, process seemed the same as discernment. Thinking and thinking, all thought became thought and nothing more.

Thus the world was blur of nothingness and the mind a vacant chaos. All before and behind me was a darkness.

Then I stumbled in the dark and found a lantern there shining.

Conversation

2009-02-01T18:23:00.000-08:00

A: I don't want to go on father.

B: You don't have to.

A: Yea, but I don't want it to end either.

B: It doesn't have to.

A: Can I have both?

B: No.

A: Why not?

B: Because you don't really want it to end, you just want an end to life as you have known it: suffering.

A: How do I end that?

B: Stop being so concerned about you don't have and what is going to happen.

A: But if I live like that, I'll fall into nothingness.

B: See, there you go again. How do you know that will happen?

A: Because I've done that before and it creates more suffering.

B: Liar.

A: What? How the hell am I lying?

B: You haven't done it before and it led to suffering. What you have done is to ignore things put before you so could chase pleasure...and you did that because you were afraid of what right action would cost you.

A: Huh?

B: The wind blew you north, and you headed south fearing winter's grip.

A: Oh.

B: Don't worry. Simply stop now. Be where you are. Do what is put before you, both within in your heart and outwardly in your life.

A: I'm scared.

B: I know.

A: What do I do?

B: I just told you.

A: But I said I am scared.

B: so?

A: SO?! Are you kidding me? You don't care that I am scared?

B: I care, but it doesn't change anything.

A: I don't follow.

B: I can soften your fears and forever keep you in bondage to it, or I can let you walk painfully through them so that you find you are made of sterner stuff than you thought. Personally, I don't feel like crippling you.

A: Yea. I don't much want to be crippled.

B: See. Was that so hard?

A: I guess not, but what do I do now?

B: Take action upon the mandates of your conscience. Walk, right this moment, painfully into your future.

A: ok, but wow, that sucks.

B: You'll be surprised. You know all that bit about people always wanting to "really live"; well, you only find it by pushing through fear to live in action and in the moment. You are about to live. I love you. Good luck.

A: Thank you. I love you too. Amen.

B: Amen.

Character Development

2009-01-30T06:30:00.000-08:00

A bit of marrow from my father,
The blood of a desperate son,
Muscle forged in the horrors of youth,
And skin burnt too much by the sun.

I dress him in the rags of my debt,
And press him into the service of my life;
He builds contraptions I've dreamt,
Always longing for the love of my wife.

His stars fate him for more than I am,
Driven by neuroses not his own
He'll remake a world his god has made,
A patchwork doll stuffed and sewn.

Walkabout

2009-01-22T17:53:00.000-08:00

Walk about dreaming in the sing-song world:
A burned out car on the highway
Sirens screaming down the pike,
The smell of burnt flesh,
Sickly pumping through the AC;

Yes, we walk about dreaming in the sing-song world:
24-16-3-22-18 and a shaking hand
In a dingy convenience store,
Secret victory over dull expectation,
We are jumping inside;

Walk about, walk about in the sing-song world:
The headline reads 43 dead,
Staring at a little blue TV screen
We try to remember to feel sorrow,
And hope for a commercial;

Singing and singing, we walk and walk:
Bones ache and breath comes slow,
The face in the mirror old and lined--
No more is coming, no more is near
We rush to the phone to call children grown;

And then in the dreaming all the notes stop:
Behind the eyes of those all about
Raging bonfires of white-hot divinity,
A soul warmed by the presence of It,
So much magnificence hidden.

Walkabout singing in the dreamsong world

ER 32 HRS

2009-01-16T16:12:00.001-08:00

Crashing down, crashing down,
Knives a'dancing, crashing down;

Swift grins nodding, a tilted head,
Push another 5 mills and hope
she doesn't end up dead;

Crashing down, crashing down,
Lives a'swimming, crashing down;

Crash cart here, an intubator there,
A warm "it will be OK",
I just keep brushing her hair,

Crashing down, crashing down,
Ravens a'circling, crashing down.

Christmas

2008-12-24T06:54:00.000-08:00

Outside, the winds blow past icicles, over snow wrapped trees, through the whole of the snow-blanketed countryside. It is Christmas time again, and despite the cold and ice over the land, homes--small outposts of light and warmth--are everywhere hanging holly, wrapping strands of pine about banisters and doors, and lighting windows. Everywhere, in the dead of winter, men and women prepare for joy.

Yet joy doesn't seem to be what it used to be. Sure, each of us can summon the spirit. Everyone can look on the bright side of things if they choose. But the unrestrained, shining eye, unashamed beaming grin sort of joy--that it seems so many of us have left by accident somewhere in childhood. And as adults will do, we try to recreate those childhood treasures with all our knowledge and craft; we reach back and try to steal moments from the past. But we never quite find that joy again; the mystery and anticipation of the thing has vanished, but if we keep our eyes and our hearts open, we can touch it again for a moment. We can remember joy, and in remembering be made new.

In town, our forgetting it is easy to see. People buy turkeys, hustle around with bags of presents, and, in general, race about. It is as if everyone has this great sense that they must hurry up and be happy, for Christmas was upon them: The season of Dread and Mirth. How easy it is to let childhood's wisdom slip past us. Children don't worry about who will be at whose home, they don't worry whether they will have "a proper holiday". The thousand thoughts that crowd into our mind never occur to theirs. Something wonderful and unexplainable is about to happen for them, and that is all that matters. They will give and receive with a joyful heart untroubled by the passing colors of this world.

The children, for all of us grown-ups, are the great present of these days. Through them comes to us again, the grace and mystery of Christ. In their complete disregard for triviality we are reminded that there are deeper callings in this life than who, what, when, and where. In their rapture for what might be, what could be, what stands just around the corner, we are taught, again, that those deeper callings are essentially joyful. Christ, both man and God, walked the Earth building a kingdom of Love. And whether he was mocked, chased out of town, or threatened, he kept on. Just as even the poorest, most abused child, holds a secret hope in their heart that this Christmas will be different, that some miracle of yet unseen grace will deliver us all from suffering. They keep on, holding an eternal vigil in their hearts. A flame, constant and precious.

So in this Christmas season, may we all wait with unrestrained hope for what could be, let go of that which is foolish, and protect and share the light in our hearts as a great treasure that can remake the world. May we all remember joy.

Thought Creatures

2008-12-19T06:24:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week, I found myself having an argument in the middle of traffic.

"You just don't get it, do you?" I said to her.

"Fine. We'll never get one."

I pulled the truck into a Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru. Maybe some coffee would calm me down.

"Don't be like that" I began, "just because I'm upset doesn't mean I am not willing to work something out".

"What the hell's the use! Every time I want something, you get all upset"

I paused, trying to put on my best sincere face, "hey, I love you, I would do anything for you; I just don't see how we can pay for it all".

I paid for the coffee, trying my best not to let the cashier notice my agitation.

"This is so typical"

I gave up. My jaw clenched and eyes narrowed. I hate fighting

Now, this probably isn't all that different than arguments couples have about money. I imagine Johhny cave-man and Susie cave-girl probably argued about how many furs needed to be put on the walls. What made this argument stand out, was that I was alone in the car!

Yup, sitting all by myself in traffic, there I was raging, despairing, pleading with my loved one (who was actually at work blissfully unaware that we were arguing).

Having realized that I just had an emotional cluster fuck that was completely in my head, I felt a bit silly. All these years grown, and still I am getting caught up in make-believe. But it wasn't a completely fruitless argument--again, the nature of the mind stood before me.

As I had sat there arguing, I wasn't arguing with what I thought my loved one might say. There was no pause where I tried to figure what she would say, there was no computation. The responses the imaginary-she gave were instant, emotional, vivid. I was arguing with her. In some strange way, my mind had broken off part of its consciousness and let it become her. It poured itself into her pattern.

I pulled the truck up to the house, struck with how powerfully she lived in my mind. And then I thought about all those different creatures that live there too. Loved ones, co-workers, my kooky neighbor, those thuggish looking kids up the straight, the sweet old lady downstairs.

All of these thought-creatures--given life through my consciousness. How strange?

Now all of this would be interesting, but rather pointless if not for a phone call from my significant other later that day. She said, "I know you are worried about the money, I'm sorry; I shouldn't have been so stubborn".

How did she know? Maybe she was simply aware of my subtle reactions from the night before, and it was rattling around her mind too. Yea, there is that old-saw. But it really doesn't make sense--it doesn't account for the consistency--the timing.

Thought creatures are strange. What creatures live in your mind?

Shape-shifter

2008-12-18T12:02:00.000-08:00

the imagination is real and that which is real imagined. the person is not the body; the person is not the mind; the person is the conglomeration of being; the person is an illusion; the person is not the i. the eye is the perceiver; the eye is the point; the eye is knowing and unknowing; the eye is beyond paradox; the eye sees all and is blind. i do not exist. Yyou do not exist. we are beliefs. we are liquid. we can neither be created or destroyed. the vessel is the mind; the vessel is the body; the vessel is the world. possession equates control. possession is an illusion. belief is liquid. destroy the i so that the eye can see. enlarge the i so that the eye is blind. be masterless. lose your sanity and go insane; let go of that and become wise. fear nothing. love is the oldest magic; love is the first law; love is the binding; love is unity; love is indomitable. words are masks; thoughts are masks; emotions are masks. the person is a mask; the world is a mask. Shape-shifter.